A Letter To Quentin Travers
by Lord Allycat
Summary: A short epistolary story about an earlier Slayer, which explores the connection between Slayers, Watchers, and the Council.


Warning: This story contains scenes of gore and is not suited for children or the weak of stomach. R-Rated.

Dear Quentin,

_I have failed._ Through this letter, I wish to inform you that my assigned Slayer, Miss Renate van de Broek, 17 years of age, has been killed. I feel I am, at least partially, to blame for this. Therefore, I feel that I have failed to do my duty as a Watcher. It is because of this failure, as an active Watcher, that I (and it grieves me much to admit this) must resign from the Council. _I am sorry. _

Before my Slayer went in her tragic final battle, she wrote a letter to no one less than you, explaining her situation. I have taken the liberty of translating it into English for you.

Dear Mr. Travers,

My name is Renate van der Broek. I am a Slayer and have been for a few months now. For the past three weeks, my city, 's-Hertogenbosch, has been haunted by an old vampire lord called Trogon. Tonight, his reign ends. Tonight, I'm going to take revenge for all the people he killed, for all my family members he killed. Tonight, I'm going to kill him. Tonight, I'm going to die.

Before I do, however, I want to tell you how this all came to be, so that you may learn from this, so that this may never happen again. Now, at first everything was ok. I slayed the vampires; I hunted the demons; I killed all the bad guys. I managed to lead my double-life, just as my Watcher, Marcel, had instructed me to. He would rather've seen me give up on my social life all together, but he knew I couldn't ever part with that, not even for my Slayer-calling. After all, I'm a teenage girl too and my family and friends meant the world to me.

Then, Trogon appeared on the scene or rather a trail of his bodies did. It wasn't hard to find out who was leaving these corpses. They all had the top of their skull ripped off and their brains partially eaten; this presumably happens, when the victims are still alive. (My apologies, Mr Travers, if you're having anything to eat, while reading this.) After our discovery, my first encounter with him soon came. He claimed he wanted a taste of my and by that he didn't just mean he was looking for a good fight. So, we fought and he won. I wasn't exactly any kind of match for him. Perhaps, it was, because I had spend that entire night slaying and got some substantial damage from it or perhaps, just because he was more than I was a (what I now hold myself to be) tool of Death.

Luckily, (at least, that's what I considered myself at that time) he didn't kill me; he had just and hadn't really expected to run into me. From now on, however, things would change; he would be looking for me, he claimed and I (too) boldly replied I would be looking for him too. The next time we were to meet was at my friend Saskia's house. He was at her FUCKING house!

He parents were away for the night and she had invited me to come over and, even though Marcel told (or should I say commanded, Mr. Travers?) me not too, I accepted; he was waiting. How he knew, I don't know, but he knew I was coming. He had tied her to a chair in the kitchen and had planted bombs in the basement. When I reached her house and I found the front door open, I knew he was there and I thought I was going to die. (I don't expect you to grasp this emotion. Safely sitting behind desk in London, it's nothing you can understand, but I don't blame you. I'm merely including this for completeness.) When I found her there in the kitchen, he was there too and ready to fight. I wasn't.

For a second time, we fought and he won. For a second time, he "spared" me. This time, however, he put me to the test. He, with remote control, put the timer of the bombs on 30 seconds. He knew that was too little time for me to untie her, but I couldn't just leave her there either. As it turns out, my brain can certainly best his and therefore, I cannot truly disapprove of him wanting it. I simply picked up the chair and ran out with it. We made it, though barely and her whole house was blown up. (Yet again, this is something I don't expect you to ever understand, it's not like you'll ever witness any kind of action, let alone an explosion, but believe me when I say this has an impact on a human: Slayer or no-Slayer.)

Nevertheless, we had survived. This was ("however" to me, "of course" to you) not enough for Marcel. By going down to her house, I had endangered her. I had to cut off all my social contacts; there was no other way. I even had to run away from home. I had to abandon my parents, my sister, my baby-brother, my best friend, all my family members, all my friends, everyone I cared about, as an ultimate way of caring for them. This was to be my sacrifice. This was the work that I had to do. This was my gift to the world, to the ones I loved; loneliness is my gift. (Or so you, Watchers, claim.)

Cold, wet, draft, dark, lonely, that was to be my new home, an abandoned house on the south side of town. I've been living here, as an animal, as a rat. Preferably a rat, at least then I'm amongst my kind. But no, I'm not a rat either. At least, they're free, while I'm locked up inside this house; this is my cage and I can only do as my Watcher pleases and commands me. Sit! Down! Play dead! And my favourite: Go fetch stake! I thought this existence felt dead inside. Boy was I wrong. Finally, he took me out hunting again; he thought I was ready. Surely, we met Trogon again; we fought and he won, again. That bastard once more let me live; he wasn't done playing his sick game. He ordered me to stop hiding and just go home. I defended myself and said that I wasn't hiding. He said that was correct for, I was being hidden. Marcel told me not to listen to him, but Trogon persuaded me. He simply asked me how far taking orders from Marcel, from you, had gotten me. That convinced me.

The house was quiet and dark. When I opened the door, I was hit by a wall of stench. I was afraid, more afraid than I had ever been in my entire life. I entered the living room. The telly was on; my dad was in favourite chair in front of it. Everything was okay, except the spoon still sticking out of the whole on top of his head, from which his brain had been eaten. I ran into the kitchen. In a similar scene, I found my mother and my 8-year-old sister. From the position they were in, one could tell, they had been fed each other.

Then I ran upstairs. As I did, my brother's cries reached my ear. I ran into his room. I found him on the floor. Alive. Not well. Top of his skull removed. Brains partially eaten (just enough to keep him alive). Limbs chewed off. He was in pain beyond comprehension. (Not just for you, but for me too.) He was dieing. Slowly. Painfully. Just like that bastard planned. With only me to ease his pain. Just like that bastard planned. So, I did it. Just like that bastard planned. Be proud, Mr. Travers, I've become the emotionless killing-machine you've always wanted me to become. Are you happy? No more friends or family. No more loved ones. They're dead. My story continues though.

I ran away from that house, that house formerly known as my home. Marcel is probably looking for me in my cage, but instead I went here. I'm at his house (his home) now. I've taken control now. If only I had done this before. I shouldn't have left my parents. I didn't stay away from Saskia and that was the very thing that saved her. I shouldn't be afraid of my loved ones. I shouldn't be running from them. I should be there with them, to protect them. But, it's too late now! However, I've realised the truth now and I want you to know, because you can still change it for all the girls to come after me. Please do!

I have to get going now; I've realised loneliness isn't my gift, but rather death is my death. Trogon told me where to find him; he's ready now; I am too. We will fight and he will win. This is okay; I'm going to bring my backpack and I'll put a timed bomb in them. He is too stupid to realise. I will die too, but that's okay, 'cause you'll just get a new girl in my pitiful stead (plenty more where I came from, right?) and it's okay to me too; I've lost everything in this world, except my life besides, this is the work that I have to do.

Farewell, Renate

She's right you know. What we do to these girls is wrong. They're not slaves to our bidding; I see that now. We're supposed to serve them, support them, love them but instead we're power-hungry old foolish men. We're jealous of their strength and thus we hold them back. We try to control them; try to control the thing only they were chosen to control, 'cause only they can. We're nothing, but sad old men. I am the saddest and most pitiful of the lot. My heart, had I one left, would be filled with grief, not just over her, but over all the others to have come before and over all the others to come after. She wasn't the first to suffer our incompetence and she won't be the last. Renate was brave to write you a letter, but foolish to believe it could or would change you. I know better than that, Quentin; it's never going to change, certainly not while you're around, certainly not in the next 10 years, probably never. I can't work for you with that knowledge, nor with the knowledge of what I, or we, have done to Renate; we killed her, just liked we and not the demons killed all the others. In fact, I cannot even live with this knowledge. That's right, Quentin; I'm too weak to fight you and your policy; too weak to live with my guilt. Death isn't my gift; Death is a gift to me. In fact, it is not even a gift; I'm stealing it, seizing it, though it isn't rightfully mine. I've sinned so much before though; one squeeze of a trigger can be over-looked.

Farewell Quentin

_I pray thee, Lord: forgive me._


End file.
